Fields of Gray
by LucyInTheSkyWithStories
Summary: A restless spirit wanders the Plains of Ashford.


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(Fields of Gray)

* * *

The last sound Abby heard was piercing screams. She didn't know if they were her own or if they were coming from others who were fleeing.

 _Fleeing from what?_

She couldn't remember.

She remembered walking on soft grass, beneath looming walls; a small hand in hers.

She remembered a clear, blue sky.

She remembered once standing in a field of green working the soil with a rusted, old rake... No, cutting grain with a sickle.

 _And now..._

It was time to plant parsnips; her son hated parsnips. No, her daughter hated parsnips.

Abby's memory began to fade, and soon, she couldn't remember if she had one son and two daughters or two sons and a daughter.

It didn't matter; she didn't miss them. She had already forgotten them.

For a fleeting moment, she tried to hold on to the memories that remained and remembered bright lights, splashes of red, the smell of blood and dirt in her nostrils.

She looked down at her blue dress and watched as it began to lose its color, but it didn't alarm her; all her memories had faded away.

She forgot her children, forgot her life, forgot all the feelings and emotions that came with life.

Happiness, boredom, sadness, fear, grief; they were all gone.

But there was something still inside her, something that kept her where she was even as the world around her lost its color.

Anger. Hate. Charr.

She allowed hate and anger to fill the now-soulless vessel that used to be her body. Allowed it to become her until Abby was no more; until there was nothing left but her translucent form.

But there was no outlet for anger in those fields of gray; it continued to amass, bubbling beneath the surface with nowhere to go.

She wandered the landscape with the sickle in her hand, through gray days and gray nights; through rain and fog that she could not feel. She did not know if she was advancing or merely walking in circles. Nor did she know how long or how far she had traveled.

It didn't concern her.

Sometimes she came upon others like herself, walking, wandering; translucent and gray. They passed each other and said nothing, felt nothing.

Then she saw her, the young, human woman.

She was gray like everything else, but there was something very different about her.

 _She is alive._

Abby felt the anger stir inside her.

The living girl did not see her; she was oblivious as she drank deeply from a canteen. She set the canteen on the ground and sat on a tree stump before checking the sole of her boot. She shook her head and opened a sack before rummaging through it.

Then came the charr.

He advanced toward the girl, but she didn't even look up.

Abby felt the anger boil inside her, felt it course through her empty veins and fill her translucent form. It propelled her toward the charr; it powered her limbs as she struck him with the sickle.

The charr cried out as he reached for his weapon guarding his face with his left forearm.

Something struck Abby from behind, and she lost her balance; she fell to the ground but felt no pain. She twisted her body and looked up; she saw the young woman on her feet in a threatening stance.

Abby understood what was happening when she saw the charr's sword looming over her as the living girl prepared a fireball, its dull, gray light glowing meekly in her hand.

"Traitor!" The word came out of Abby's throat ragged, muted; inhuman.

The white-hot rage propelled her to her feet, launched her toward the treasonous young woman leaving the charr forgotten behind her. She didn't feel when his sword ran her through; she kept walking, the fireball hit her, and the flames engulfed her, but she didn't feel them. The charr's strikes and the living girl's conjured flames slowed her movements and simultaneously fueled her rage.

Their assault eventually brought her to the ground, she fell on her back, lifeless eyes staring at the gray sky. It flashed blue for the briefest of instants before it began to turn black.

Everything was turning black.

The darkness quelled her rage making room for one last thought.

 _Black is better than gray._

* * *

 **A/N:** I haven't played GW2 for very long, and I never played GW1. But as I was playing in the Plains of Ashford last night, I couldn't help feeling sorry for the ghosts even though they kept trying to murder me...a lot. They always seem so angry and easy to agro. I know canon says that Ascalonian ghosts can't really be killed, but I felt that poor Abby deserved some rest.


End file.
